


Kingdom for a Heart

by quiettoxic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:28:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettoxic/pseuds/quiettoxic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re on each other as soon as they hear Sweden’s car pull up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingdom for a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Another story named after a song! 'Kingdom for a Heart' by Sonata Arctica. I was also thinking of the theme song of Vikings, but that aside.
> 
> Phew, I'm done writing about Norway for a while, I think. Still haven't got a good grasp on his character - it really fluctuates a lot - but I'm going to look for prompts about other characters now. Maybe Romania. I saw a really cute SpaBel one the other day. But anyway. A short story. (:
> 
> ([The prompt.](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/84699.html?thread=513606619#cmt513606619))

They’re on each other as soon as they hear Sweden’s car pull up.  
   
It’s been a meeting of drawn-out gazes and faint contact, and Norway and Iceland don’t have long until Iceland has to catch a plane back to Reykjavík, so they need to make the most of it now. Iceland throws his entire body against his brother, pushing him to the wall in the hallway, where they’d been unsubtly waiting for the other Nordics to be gone. Their eyes meet for a short moment, but then Norway gets his hands around Iceland’s head and pulls, and nothing matters.  
   
Their lips crash together. It’s messy, unlike either of them, but that’s part of what makes it good, at least in Iceland’s opinion. He pulls Norway’s hands from his hair and pushes them against the wall on either side of his head; rocks his hips slowly. Norway groans. Iceland probes at his lips with his tongue, and is granted entrance immediately. He pushes himself closer to his brother, hands sliding down to his wrists, leg nudging between his thighs, tongue tangling with his in a hot, wet mess. Norway gives as good as he gets. His back arches off the wall, and he rolls his hips urgently. Iceland knows he could probably pull his wrists free if he wanted to, but he likes this suggestion of power. The feeling that he could do anything to Norway, and he’d take it.  
   
There’s a whispered curse, the _thunk_ of Norway’s head hitting the wall, when Iceland moves to suck a kiss just underneath the jut of his sharp jaw, then further down his neck, to underneath his collar. He bites down, then, drinking in the small sounds his brother makes. He feels Norway’s fingers twitching, so he presses on his wrists a little more. Up again; more messy kissing, biting down on each other’s lips in search of more contact. Norway smells like aftershave that is not his.  
   
They haven’t said a word yet. They never talk much. What’s there to say?  
   
Iceland runs his hands down Norway’s arms, raking the sleeves up. His wrists are warm and bony. He feels so _alive_ , and Iceland needs more. He lets the arms go to pull at clothes instead, hands yanking Norway’s shirt out of his pants and ripping it open. Norway laughs, a little breathless. He still has his arms against the wall. That’s nice. That’s really nice, Iceland decides. He slides his hands underneath the man’s undershirt, which elicits a gasp. He smiles. His hands are cold. They always are. He follows the bend of Norway’s waist, the familiar curve of his ribs. Norway bites his lip. Iceland bites his – it’s a habit they share, but he’s not sure who copied it from whom.  
   
Then Norway springs forward, pushes at Iceland’s shoulders until his back hits the opposite wall, narrowly avoiding the mirror. Iceland grunts and shoves back. There is a dangerous smirk playing around Norway’s mouth. It’s really attractive, so Iceland yanks at his collar until their lips meet again. He imagines he can feel the smirk against his mouth, can taste the sin it promises.  
   
Well. He doesn’t have to imagine the sin.  
   
They’re in the middle of Norway’s hall, stumbling this way and that; probably in danger of tripping over a pair of shoes soon. This is always the way it goes. There will be looks – sometimes so subtle that neither brother knows if they were real, and sometimes so blatantly lustful that it’s a miracle no one has caught on yet – and then, when they’re alone, _this_. Norway presses a hand against Iceland’s lower back, underneath his sweater. It’s warm. Iceland pushes his brother’s shirt up, exposing more and more skin to chilly air. Norway’s other hand winds around his head again, twisting through the short hair at the nape of his neck. But Iceland keeps pushing until he briskly shrugs his shirt off, and then he tugs until Norway pulls out of the kiss irritably and yanks his undershirt over his head. His hair pin clatters to the ground.  
   
Iceland grins, possibly looking a little manic. He loves it when Norway’s composure breaks.  
   
Norway breathes through his mouth. His lips are bruised and slick, his eyes dark. He starts to unbuckle his belt, but changes his mind and tugs at Iceland’s sweater instead. Iceland grips his hands – their fingers twine together – and kisses him again. They stumble until Norway’s back hits the wall. His hands are pinned by Iceland’s. The nation groans.  
   
Iceland kisses down his throat, at the same time pressing a knee up between his legs. He grins when he hears a soft curse. Lower down, just underneath Norway’s collarbone, he sucks at pale skin hard enough to leave a mark. Always there, where the chances of anyone seeing it are small. ‘Anyone’ meaning Denmark, god forbid. Norway’s fingers curl around Iceland’s. Iceland lets go of them to get his hands on his brother’s chest, following his mouth as it works its way down. He relishes in the squeak-turned-moan that escapes when he tweaks a nipple.  
   
A whisper that sounds like his name falls from Norway’s lips, and then there are hands on his sides, so he pulls his sweater and his undershirt over his head because they don’t _have_ much time. Norway smiles a little, and then everything becomes frantic. They yank at each other’s belts; Iceland pushes Norway’s hands out of the way, then pulls them back. Their mouths meet again, and he’s not sure what his own hands do after that. They weave through hair and slide over skin and leather and denim, seemingly all at once. It’s not nearly enough, and it’s overwhelming.  
   
Until Norway’s head bonks against the wall.  
   
“Ow,” he says.  
   
Iceland looks up at him. He looks disheveled, hair freed from its usual style and falling in messy waves around his head, eyes wild and _fuck_ he’s beautiful. Iceland straightens to press a closemouthed kiss to his lips, then gets a finger through a belt loop and starts tugging him to the stairs.  
   
They stumble upstairs. On the landing, Norway shoves Iceland against a door to lavish attention on his neck and slowly grind their hips together. Iceland arches his back, fists a hand into Norway’s hair and yanks him away. They look at each other for a moment, breathing each other’s air. Norway’s thumbs are rubbing circles into Iceland’s hips.  
   
“Are we gonna make it to the bedroom?” Norway asks. His voice is even deeper than is normal, which sends an aroused shiver down Iceland’s spine.  
   
“Why?” Iceland returns, and then, in a bout of courage, “Would you like for me to take you here, against the wall?”  
   
A sharp intake of breath, then an answer in a tone betraying nothing, “I wasn’t aware that that was the plan, little brother.”  
   
Stupid. “Of course it is.” He tightens his fist in Norway’s hair. “I am not your _little brother_.”  
   
“Of course you are,” Norway says, so Iceland puts his other hand on his chest and pushes him across the landing until he hits the opposite wall. He laughs. Iceland kisses him harshly, tilting his head back by his hair. He gets his fingers under Norway’s jeans and pries the buttons open. Norway tries to do the same to him, but Iceland pushes his arms to the wall once again.  
   
“Keep those there,” he says, and Norway groans and arches his back.  
   
Iceland sinks to his knees, pulling Norway’s jeans and underwear down in one swift move. He’s hard already, erection long and thin like the rest of him. Iceland becomes acutely aware of his own arousal for the first time, pressing into the fly of his pants. But that’s of later concern. Now, he swallows Norway down briskly. There’s no need for teasing – there’s no _time_ for teasing, and he has no desire to do so. Norway cuts off a gasp, curses under his breath. His hips move a little, aborted movements like he’s not aware of doing it. Iceland moves fast – not a hint of grace, but why would there be? It’s hard to find grace in what they have anyway. Norway curses again, and then a hand slides around Iceland’s jaw.  
   
He slams it to the wall and holds it there, looking up at his brother. His other hand is around the man’s cock, rapidly stroking what he can’t reach with his mouth.  
   
After a long moment of heated eye contact, Norway groans and leans his head against the wall. He whispers Iceland’s name.  
   
Iceland closes his eyes for a second, wishing that he wouldn’t. He wonders when this is going to be too hard to keep up, quite often. He is sometimes afraid he loves Norway too much.  
   
He looks at the man in question again; his chest is heaving and his face turned up. Iceland pulls off of him with an obscene wet sound that sends sparks of arousal through his body, and stands back up. Norway tilts his head. Iceland jerks his chin in the direction of his bedroom door, and a small smile appears on his brother’s lips.  
   
Once inside, they shove at each other until, somehow, Norway falls half on top of his neatly made bed. After a small detour to turn the light on, because darkness falls quick in the north, Iceland positions himself between his legs. Norway is pale against the dark blue sheets. They match his eyes, which are gazing up at Iceland defiantly. His legs curl around Iceland’s knees to pull him closer. The younger nation stumbles, puts his hands on the sheets to steady himself. He’s hovering over his brother.  
   
“Well?” Norway asks, eyebrows raised. He’s baiting him, Iceland knows; challenging him to take what he wants. Nowadays, he does. It hasn’t always been like that between them. Of course, there are lots of things between them now that haven’t always been there, and, during clear moments of self-reflection, Iceland has mixed feelings about most of them. He doesn’t care now. Neither does Norway, or he would have said something.  
   
Iceland leans over to kiss him, clambering up on the bed too. They shuffle until they’re both completely on top of the mattress, Norway’s head on his pillow and his hands curled tightly around Iceland’s shoulders. Their lips mesh, bruisingly harsh, and Iceland spares a thought for his plane ride later today, but then he decides he doesn't care about looking decent and kisses harder. He sucks Norway’s tongue into his mouth, enjoying the sound that pulls from the man. Nails scrape over his shoulder blades.  
   
He pulls out of the kiss to sit back and unbutton his jeans, a little frantic. Norway fumbles to help him while sucking on his neck and kissing up his throat. Iceland arches his back into the touch.  
   
When his jeans are finally open, he struggles to get out of them. Norway is not helping, distracting him by putting his mouth all over his chest. But eventually, he manages. Now, finally, his cock slides together with Norway’s. They both groan. Iceland rocks his hips, pressing his brother into the mattress.  
   
Then it’s Norway’s hands on him again, fingers thin and warm on his skin. They slide up over his throat until Norway is framing his jaw, and then they pull him into another kiss.  
   
But they don’t have enough time for one of those long makeout sessions, as much as Iceland loves them. His plane leaves in – he glances at the clock – a few hours’ time. So he pulls back, dragging his own hands over Norway’s sides as he sits up. Norway, of course, tries to follow, but a hand on his breastbone stops him.  
   
Iceland doesn’t have to say anything. He just reaches for the bedside drawer to pull out the bottle of lube and a condom and holds them up. His brother takes a look, then shakes his head. Iceland smiles a little and puts the condom away. Fine, if Norway doesn’t mind the messiness, then neither does he. The man in question smirks. His lips are red, but the rest of him is barely flushed. Iceland is envious.  
   
He doesn’t look for too long – touching is better anyway. It’s easier to lose yourself in touch. It’s easier to lose everything in touch. So the nation runs his hands firmly over his brother’s pale thighs, until they rest on his hips and he can hold him down as he puts his mouth on his erection again. Norway breathes out sharply. His legs fall to the side, and Iceland runs his fingers over them. It’s a good thing Norway isn’t ticklish, he thinks as he moves his mouth up and down the man’s cock, licking and sucking. His right hand finds its way to his brother’s balls, rolling them gently. Norway groans softly.  
   
“Ice,” he mumbles.  
   
Iceland breathes out, closing his eyes. He can feel Norway’s body move underneath him, and he wants to both relish this moment and forget it as soon as possible, because they shouldn’t have this, he knows. It’s not right on so many levels.  
   
His brother mumbles his name again, this time in a questioning tone, and the island nation forgets about his morals, sits up and pushes the man’s left knee up.  
   
Norway’s eyes are dark and focused on him as he slicks up his fingers and pushes one into him. Again, no teasing. They’ve wasted enough time already.  
   
Iceland can’t keep his eyes on Norway for much longer, so he looks down instead, to where his index finger is disappearing into him, moving quickly. At least his hands have warmed up a little. Norway makes a sound in his throat, not quite a whimper, and Iceland smiles a small, secret smile.  
   
He pushes a second finger against the rim of his brother’s hole, glancing up at him. Norway raises an eyebrow, so Iceland pushes it in. Finally, Norway’s eyelids flutter shut. His long fingers clench in the sheets, and he breathes through his mouth. Iceland moves his fingers fast, trying to bend them just _so_ , to maybe get his brother to make a little more sound, because there are few things more rewarding than getting Norway to moan out loud – or even scream.  
   
That thought sends arousal crashing over the nation, and he feels the urgency from before return in a rush. He needs to be in Norway as soon as possible. A third finger is added without warning, and Norway jerks his leg to the side in surprise. Iceland pushes it down and leans over him to nip at his chest. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the sensitive skin of Norway’s perineum, and the man makes another small sound.  
   
Finally, Iceland succeeds in curling his fingers the right way to brush over Norway’s prostate. In combination with the thumb pressing down on his perineum, this pulls a muffled moan from him, so Iceland repeats the movement, eager to hear more. He looks up at his brother, but his eyes are shut and his head pressing into his pillow as his back arches. Iceland sits back a little to look at his fingers instead, moving in and out of Norway’s hole. He teases at the edge with his pinky, and Norway moans again, but Iceland decides against it and pulls his fingers out. Some other time, when they’ve got a whole day, he’ll see how much Norway can take. His whole fist, maybe?  
   
Gods, that would be amazing, he thinks.  
   
“Ice,” Norway says.  
   
“Nore,” Iceland answers. He shuffles closer to him, nudges his cock between his buttocks. It’s shorter than Norway’s, but thicker. Everything about him is, really, down to his hair.  
   
“Yes,” Norway breathes, as if he needed the confirmation, and Iceland pushes in. He wants to go fast – wants to pound his brother through the mattress – but he knows that that was not the most thorough preparation ever, so he exercises a little caution. Norway wraps his bony legs around him, pulling him in until he bottoms out. It’s incredible, the tight heat surrounding him. It’s always incredible, it’s always too much, and it’s never enough.  
   
Norway moves his hips a little, so Iceland moves his too, pulling his cock out. His brother breathes in sharply, then breathes out his name again, in an almost reverent way.  
   
Something breaks in Iceland.  
   
He grabs Norway’s hips to pull him all the way down on his cock, leaning over him. Norway gazes up at him, looking surprised and turned on in equal measure. He moans when Iceland pulls back out.  
   
He speeds up quickly, thrusting deep and hard, hands pressing down on Norway’s hips, then his waist, and eventually his brother drags him down by his neck to mash their mouths together and his hands land on the man’s shoulders to hold him in place as he pounds into him. The bed is creaking dangerously, but the noise is drowned out by the slap of skin on skin, by Iceland’s panting and Norway’s muffled moans. Norway’s nails scrape over his back.  
   
A louder moan escapes Norway, accompanied by the feeling of his nails leaving crescents in Iceland’s skin and his ass tightening around him, and Iceland knows he’s found it again, so he keeps that angle.  
   
“Iceland,” Norway moans, and the last syllable is more of a yell, and _that_ is what he wants to hear. He pulls his brother’s arms from his back and pins them to the mattress, where he leans on them as he tries to speed up even more. Norway curses, tries to buck up.  
   
“Yes, Nore, come on,” Iceland whispers, only realizing he’s doing so as the words leave his mouth. He slows for a few seconds, then speeds back up, distantly admiring the way Norway’s hands twist the sheets and how his hair is spread over the pillow. He’s glad he turned the light on, even if it’s a bit much at times. He can see how his brother’s chest, criss-crossed with silvery scars, heaves as he pants, and how the flush is finally working its way down, spreading over his shoulders beautifully.  
   
Something shifts. Norway’s next curse is a yell, and the arch of his back becomes more pronounced. Iceland bites his lip, hard, to keep himself from making an all too loud sound when Norway clenches down on him. His fingers dig into his brother’s arms, and he malignantly hopes he leaves visible marks.  
   
Norway throws his head back. His neck is pale, and Iceland wants to mark that, too. But he knows he can’t – shouldn’t, couldn’t – so he distracts himself by letting go of an arm to get a hand around Norway’s cock. The man curses loudly again, tilts his head back to look.  
   
“Fuck, Ice,” he gasps when Iceland twists his wrist. They hold each other’s gaze until Norway leans his head back again, with a moan. Iceland leans _his_ head forward, his hair shielding his eyes. He is close; the heat of an oncoming orgasm is building, gathering in his crotch. But he wants Norway to come first.  
   
He doesn’t have to wait long. Norway’s arm is jerking in his grip, but he doesn’t let go. A curse turns into a moan turns into a wordless yell and then Norway is coming, hot and slick on Iceland’s hand. The island nation looks down at his brother’s face – his eyes are closed and his brow furrowed. He’s still panting, and Iceland keeps his hand around his softening cock.  
   
So close. Norway opens his eyes and looks up at him, tries to wriggle away from Iceland’s hand. Iceland looks back and doesn’t let him.  
   
The heat intensifies until it becomes an unbearable itch, and then Iceland curses and comes undone. His fingers fall from Norway’s cock; he bends over the nation, gasping. Between gasps, Norway whispers something he doesn’t understand. One hand winds into Iceland’s hair. The other one is still pinned to the mattress. Iceland lets go of it distractedly as he rides out his orgasm. He’s hot.  
   
When it’s over, he slowly pulls his cock out, and Norway makes one of those small sounds in his throat again. The air is chilly on Iceland’s skin. He sits back and looks at his brother, a little bleary with post-coital daze. There are, in fact, faint bruises on his arms, but they’ll be gone before tomorrow. He strokes his fingers lightly over them, and Norway props himself up in his elbows and blinks at him.  
   
“Hey,” Iceland says awkwardly. Norway nods at him with a drowsy half-smile.  
   
“You stayin’?”  
   
“I can’t,” he replies. Not that Norway didn’t know that already, but there’s a certain routine to these moments, and he won’t be the one to break it.  
   
Norway’s thin fingers tangle with his own broader ones, and he looks down at the knot of pale skin.  
   
“I can’t,” he repeats, more to himself than to his brother. “My plane leaves in a few hours.”  
   
“I know,” says Norway. He turns their hands over, strokes his thumb over the ball of Iceland’s hand. “D’ya have to go now?”  
   
Iceland glances at the clock on the bedside table. He could spare twenty minutes or so, but then he won’t want to leave, so he replies, "Yeah. I’ll, uh-" He gestures vaguely, then untangles his hand and clambers backwards off the bed to go get a cloth from the bathroom. He carefully doesn’t look at his reflection in the mirror.  
   
Neither of them has moralistic breakdowns anymore, like in the beginning of this – whatever this is, but Iceland knows he questions the whole thing sometimes. Still. He loves Norway and he’ll take whatever his brother is willing to give.  
   
When he’s cleaned them both up, Norway drags him down to kiss him slowly, and Iceland almost loses himself in the warmth of his lips, but he snaps himself out of it and pulls back.  
   
“I have to–”  
   
“Go. Yes.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
They look at each other for a little while longer, but then Iceland shakes his head and turns to look for his clothes. He’s a little wobbly on his legs.  
   
“Well,” he says when he’s got his jeans on, “my shirt is downstairs, so I guess I’ll just...”  
   
Norway sits on the edge of the bed, his hair still disheveled and his lips still red, and he turns his face up, so Iceland kisses him goodbye. It’s awfully domestic, and it hurts somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.  
   
“Safe travels, little brother,” Norway murmurs.  
   
Oh, for god’s sake.  
   



End file.
